The sight of the man hurrying off home seemed to complete the restoration of his good temper. “Well, Joe,” he said affably: “How’s that mixed carseymere coming along?”
“They’re just raising it now, Mester Oldroyd,” said Joe rather unhappily—he never recovered from Mr. Oldroyd’s temper as quickly as its owner. “It’s just on the nelly.”
“What sort of a day have you had, father?” demanded Will eagerly.
“Oh, not so bad, not so bad, not bad at all considering how bad trade is,” said Mr. Oldroyd, stalking towards the table where he kept his papers. “If only this confounded war would stop! They say it’s true the French have taken Valencia. What do the Government expect, I’d like to know, fooling about in Spain? Spain! What have we got to do with Spain except buy wool there? Why don’t they get those damned Orders in Council repealed? If they go on like this they’ll ruin the whole country; I don’t know what we shall all come to, I’m sure.”
At this there was a faint muttering stir, as of assent, amongst the men.
An hour later the mill door was locked, and father and son were riding homewards through the dark, a lantern bobbing at Will’s saddle-bow. As they passed through Marthwaite a red glow by the roadside and the clang of iron on iron told them that the smith was still working.
“Aha!” exclaimed Mr. Oldroyd with pleasure. “Enoch’s busy. We’ll have those frames in by the end of next week.”
“Happen,” murmured Will, who was busy with thoughts of Mary—her soft flushed cheek, the beating of her heart beneath his hand, the warm smoothness of her young flesh.
“There’s no happen about it,” said Mr. Oldroyd vehemently. “He promised them for last week; I’ll have them for next week or I’ll know the reason why.”
The two men rode on in silence, and presently turned down the rough packhorse road to Dean Head House.
“Father,” blurted Will suddenly: “I’m wanting to get wed.”
“You young fool!” roared his father, in affectionate disgust. “What next, pray? And who’s the lass?”
“Mary Bamforth,” said Will sheepishly.
“What in the name of heaven do you want to choose her for?” demanded Mr. Oldroyd, aghast. “Mary Bamforth! Good God!”
“Why shouldn’t I choose her?” cried Will, his temper rising at his father’s tone. “You’ve nowt against Mary, have you?”
“She’s a poor weaver’s daughter,” replied his father, “And she hasn’t a penny to her name; that’s all. It’s taken the Oldroyds three generations to get up beyond that, Will; and here you go wanting to drag yourself down. There’s Brigg’s daughter up at Bin Royd; she’d be glad to have you, and Brigg’s doing nicely for himself now—though he is such a cowardly fool about the frames,” he added in a tone of disgust. “If you wed Mary Bamforth, Will,” he resumed decidedly: “everybody’ll say you’ve had her first, and been forced to it by her brother.”
“They can say what they like,” shouted Will, infuriated by his father’s shrewd approach to the truth: “I don’t care what they say. I mean to wed Mary.”
“Well, don’t bother me about it now,” grumbled Mr. Oldroyd. “It isn’t a time to be thinking of marriage now, what with the war, and the Luddites, and trade so bad. Wait till the frames are in, and we see how things go.”
Will scowled consideringly. He thought of Mary’s gentle face, of Joe’s kindly smile, and a pang went through him; he would be wrong, mean, low, he thought vehemently, if he delayed setting Mary right in her own eyes one single day longer than was absolutely necessary. His pulses throbbed, hot words were on his tongue. But his common sense reasserted itself, or what he took for his common sense; such notions were high-flown and romantical; not like an Oldroyd. What harm would it do Mary to wait a week or two, after all? It was reasonable to wait for the frames, so new and so important. It crossed his mind that if he had not had Mary that morning he would have been more angered by his father’s postponement; he hated himself for the ignoble thought, and in reaction against it asked sharply: “Do you think it will be long before the men settle down to the frames?”
“No,” replied Mr. Oldroyd confidently: “I don’t. Why the silly lads can’t see now that if we turn out cloth cheaper we shall sell more, and so there’ll be more work for them, passes my understanding; but mark my words, Will, they’ll have to see it some time or other, and the sooner they see it the better for them. Frames have come to stay. In a few years a man who doesn’t use frames’ll stand no chance in the cloth trade, whatever Brigg may say; the West Riding’ll be humming with frames, and the trade’ll be ten times what it is to-day.”
“I suppose there’ll be a time between now and then when some of the hand-croppers will be out of work,” mused Will.
“That can’t be helped,” said his father shortly. “They’ll be better off in the long run.”
“Well,” said Will, rather pleased with himself for his determined loyalty: “To come back to Mary. We’ll leave it till the frames are in. But I mean to wed Mary, father, soon or late. You can’t turn me from it.”
“Have I tried to turn you from it, you young fool?” roared his father. “Leave it alone, I say, till after the frames are in.”
“And shall you have the soldiers, as Enoch Smith said?” enquired Will.
“Soldiers be damned,” replied Mr. Oldroyd heartily. “What do we want to bring redcoats among decent Ire Valley folk for, I’d like to know? Have some sense, Will.”
“But if you can’t get the frames, in safe, without?” persisted Will thinking of Mary.
“Then I shall have the soldiers,” said Mr. Oldroyd, setting his jaw stubbornly. “Those frames are going to run in Syke Mill, make no mistake about that, my boy.”
They drew rein in the cobbled yard of Dean Head House, and dismounted.
Chapter II
Machines And Men
1
Behind Joe on the dark road came a sudden burst of noise: men’s voices raised in loud argument.
He sighed, and quickened his step. That was George Mellor shouting at somebody or other about the Luddites, and Joe had no mind to listen to George Mellor’s high-pitched, angry voice, railing against frames and the war and the hard times and the Oldroyds, all the way from Marthwaite, where George usually overtook him, up the far side of the valley to Scape Scar. He had had too much of it lately. Even when they reached the cottages George would not break off, but stood—holding Joe by the lapel of his worn black coat, pouring out his grievances, reproaching Joe for not being “twissed in,” as he called taking the Luddite oath, and interlarding his conversation with high-flown political sentiments which made Joe feel sick because they were so obviously misunderstood quotations from somebody else—in the cold for half an hour on end. Presently Mary, hearing their voices (or rather George’s) would open the Bam-forths’ door and call mildly: “Joe! “ He would reply: “I’m here, lass!” and break away, but before he had reached his door Mellor would be on to him again with some fresh argument. “Mind you, Joe!” he would begin earnestly, seizing hold of Joe’s coat again; and would then talk on for another ten minutes, until one or other of them sneezed or the pale shrewish Mrs. Mellor appeared at her door. Joe smiled ruefully to himself as he remembered these long, cold, hungry conversations in the dark, and his own utter inability to hurt George’s feelings by putting an end to them. But to have to go through another of them tonight was simply more than he could bear; somehow everything seemed to weigh on him so nowadays, and to-day he was dead tired with the long hours in the mill and the change in the weather, and dejected beyond words by Mr. Oldroyd’s outburst of temper. He knew well enough that Mr. Oldroyd and Will were kind, decent, honourable men at heart, and not lacking in goodwill towards their fellow men—he had received too many kindnesses from Mr. Oldroyd, too much honest love from Will, hot to know that—but why, why need their admirable energy express itself in such vehement and uncomfortable ways? Why need Mr. Oldroyd stamp and rave about the mill, making one’s h
eart beat fast and one’s mind daze, shouting about Luddites’ blood and saddle-girths in that exaggerated and childish manner, so that Joe was ashamed for him? When Mr. Oldroyd was asked for some favour and in the heat of the moment shouted “Never!” as like as not he would go out of his way to do the favour on the morrow, and when he talked of riding through Luddites’ blood he probably meant merely that he was ready to knock down any Luddite who came prowling round the mill—yes, knock him down and give him sixpence after, and think that all was mended. But violence couldn’t be mended in that way, thought Joe; when would Mr. Oldroyd realise that men hated being shouted at more than they loved sixpences? Probably never, reflected Joe mournfully; and consequently, as like as not some fine morning Mr. Oldroyd would wake up and find his frames smashed—for what he had said in the mill to-day would be repeated all over the Ire Valley. The Syke Mill men would repeat it with half a laugh; their hearers would receive it seriously. Ought Joe to warn Mr. Oldroyd? No, he couldn’t possibly do that, he couldn’t be a traitor like that to his own friends, to the Ire Valley croppers, to men who had right, the right conferred by suffering, on their side; but he might just drop a word of warning to Will. Indeed he had meant to do it—-meant to hint with a smile that Mr. Oldroyd and his son had best keep their plans for the frames to themselves lest the wrong ears should hear them—that very day if he got the chance; but Will had seemed abrupt, constrained, uneasy all the day, had almost, one might think, kept out of his way on purpose. Well! It was all very difficult. Meanwhile, here were George Mellor’s heavy uneven footsteps thundering up the Marthwaite road behind him. Joe, whose tread was light and graceful as the ginger cat’s, on an impulse stepped off the road into the shelter of the east wall of the Marthwaite inn. He smiled yet shook his head as he heard Mellow lurch swiftly by; he was glad to have avoided his company, yet vexed with himself for doing so—it was hard-hearted, he thought, unneighbourly, and rather cowardly as well.
All the same, when Mellor’s footsteps had died away Joe walked on with a lighter heart. The night was dark and thick and warm; a mild air gently caressed his cheek, haggard with fatigue, and seemed to freshen it; spring was really on its way at last. He paused on the single span of the Marthwaite bridge, and leaning against the low parapet, listened dreamily to the long swish and gurgle of the Ire below; other sound was there none until just behind him the clock of Marthwaite Church slowly struck the hour in a high clear tone. And suddenly Joe forgot the Luddites and the Oldroyds and George Mellor and the long tiring day, and was happy, happy because he was in the Ire Valley at night alone, and he loved it. He could not see a yard before him in any direction, but he did not need to see the real Ire Valley, for he knew every sombre brow, every green fold, every dark rock and scrubby tree of it, he could picture it all to himself, yes, all the long sweep of it from the wild dark moorland heights down to the busy lighted town. He could see the Ire tumbling noisily past Dean Head House, gathering strength as it went down the the valley from a dozen cold little moorland streams, of which the Black Syke was the most considerable; turning the Syke Mill wheel evenly all the day; flowing with depth and dignity between the three proud arches of the Ire Bridge, and finally taking a majestic curve round Annotsfield. Yes, he saw all the long valley and loved it all, and wished well to every man who lived in it. If only he could do something, anything for them all, how gladly he would do it! He lifted his arms as though to begin, then let them fall again to his side. Of course there was nothing he could do; how could there be anything for him to do? Mr. Oldroyd would indeed say he was soft if he could see him standing there in the dark, supperless, dreaming of some delusory notion that he could see as little as he could see the Ire Valley. Joe laughed quietly. “Aye, and he’d be right for once,” he told himself. “I mun get home.” He moved across the bridge and began to climb the hill towards Scape Scar.
As he neared the top he was startled to hear a scream, and then a confused noise of shouting and sobbing. “What’s Mellor up to now?” he wondered in alarm, and ran as fast as he could up the steep lane. He thought he heard Mary’s voice mingling with the rest, and broke into a sweat of panic. “Mary!” he shouted, and whistled the special phrase he kept for his sister. It brought her running towards him, and in a moment she was fumbling for his arm. “What’s up?” he demanded anxiously.
“It’s that great gowk George Mellor,” cried Mary, between laughter and tears, as they walked up the slope together. “He’s thrown t’sixpence Will Oldroyd gave to Charley away.”
“Will Oldroyd?” said Joe, surprised.
“He came to leave a paper for thee,” said Mary quickly. “It’s on table. And he gave Charley a sixpence for minding his mare.”
They were near enough now to hear distinctly what was going on between the Mellors, and indeed partly to see it by the light of a candle which seemed to be bobbing up and down the patch of rough grass before their door. Mrs. Mellor, her thin peevish face shaded by a shawl which she clutched about her throat with the hand that bore her wedding ring, a candle in the other hand, was peering about the ground as well as she could for sobs, which shook her thin body convulsively. The candle flickered and threatened to go out every minute. In its uncertain light the lanky figure of George Mellor could be seen on his own threshold; his long face was white, his light eyes glazed, his short blunt nostrils dilated with passion; to Joe’s alarmed fancy it almost seemed that he foamed at the mouth and that his short pale hair bristled all round his narrow, hatchet-shaped head. He was shaking his fist and shouting at his wretched wife, who continued her search, moaning. A pale face or two pressed against the window pane, and the sound of sobs from about the level of Mellor’s thighs, showed that the children were all awake and taking part in the dismal scene. Charley at once pushed out round his father’s leg and seized Joe’s hand, crying loudly.
“Now, Mrs. Mellor, now, George!” said Joe in a pleasant joking tone, going up to them. “What’s up here? I could hear both on you down i’ Marthwaite.”
“I’m glad on it!” cried Mellor in a high ringing tone. “I hope all th’ Ire Valley’ll hear me, from Dean Head down to Annotsfield. Especially Dean Head,” he added grimly.
At this Joe sighed. “But what’s up?” he pursued. “I can’t make head or tail on it yet.”
“Thy Will Oldroyd were round here this morning,” explained Mellor, “and he gave Charley here a sixpenny piece—for minding his fine chestnut mare. I don’t doubt—and I’ve put it where it ought to be put, on t’dung-heap.”
“Tha great fool!” commented his wife bitterly, lifting a pinched and tearstricken face. “Afore tha starts throwing good silver away, tha should bring more home wi’ thee at week-end. It’s a man’s job to provide for his wife and childer, isn’t it?”
“How can I wi’ these accursed frames coming in?” shouted Mellor. “Work’s getting less and less every day. There’ll be no hand-cropping left i’ th’ Ire Valley soon.” The tears started to his eyes as he added: “And then t’lot on us’ll clem to death, as far as I can see.”
“Then why did tha throw sixpence away?” screamed his wife desperately.
“Because I want none o’ Will Oldroyd’s money here,” said Mellor, his voice shaking between anger and grief. “I want no silver from them that’s taking bread out o’ wer childer’s mouths. We’ll find other ways o’ dealing wi’ them.” He spoke with meaning, and Joe sighed again. “Come in, lass,” he went on roughly to his wife. “Don’t waste good candle on such a fool’s job. Sixpence is lost. Come in.”
“Aye, do, Mrs. Mellor,” urged Joe. “In the morning light you can look again.”
“Sixpence won’t run away,” said Mary in her gentle loving tones, from behind her brother’s shoulder. “Tha’ll wear thysen out stooping so, Lizzie; go in.”
“I’m non so keen on going in,” wailed Mrs. Mellor. “He struck me.”
“Aye, and I’ll strike thee again,” cried her husband angrily, ashamed: “if tha doesn’t howd thy tongue and come in.�
��
Reluctantly, sniffing and sobbing, Mrs. Mellor allowed herself to be persuaded into the house, and the Bamforths gladly withdrew to theirs.
Joe was usually particular to wash before his meal, but to-night he was too weary and heartsick to do anything but sink into a chair and wait for Mary to set food before him. His head ached and he felt wretched; he loathed all violence, all conflict, and scenes between husband and wife seemed to him peculiarly desolating. That Lizzie Mellor, too, whom he remembered only a few years ago as a bright fair beauty teasing her many suitors, should now be a pale peevish woman railing at her husband and rewarded by a blow, wrenched at his heart. And the trouble to-night was all his fault, dreamer that he was! If he had waited for George Mellor in Marthwaite as a friendly neighbour should, and walked up with him and been with him when he heard about Charley’s sixpence—for the child, so Mary said, had rushed eagerly from the cottage to tell his father of his treasure—the whole miserable scene might never have taken place. Instead of that he had stood on Marthwaite Bridge, thinking noble thoughts about the Ire Valley and lifting his hands uselessly to heaven. “I’m soft, as Mr. Oldroyd says,” thought Joe. “A soft dreamer.”
“Where’s the paper Will left?” he demanded rather harshly of his sister. Mary gave it him; holding it to the candle he began to read, and soon caught sight of a paragraph about the destruction of five frames by the Luddites on top of Hartshead Moor the previous Thursday night. Thursday! He remembered only too well that George Mellor had been particularly jubilant and lively, though rather tired-eyed, on Friday. “He’s in it deep,” he thought, and worried. And why had Will left the paper there, instead of giving it to him openly at the mill? And avoided him all the day? Did he know or suspect about George Mellor being a Luddite? Was he giving a warning to Joe? That he intended Joe to read some special meaning into this business of the paper, Joe felt sure; but what? He threw the sheet from him angrily.
Inheritance Page 3
